


Going Down

by sdk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Background Pansy/Astoria, Community: daily_deviant, Consent Issues, Cunnilingus, F/F, Infidelity, Jealousy, POV Second Person, Polyjuice Potion, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, automasochism, background astoria/draco, self-taste, use of Polyjuice during sex, zelophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/pseuds/sdk
Summary: Hermione's curiosity won't go away until she sates it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52
Collections: Daily Deviant





	Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Daily Deviant Feb 2020 themes: automasochism (pleasure derived from inflicting pain on oneself), self-taste, zelophilia (arousal from experiencing jealousy or causing jealousy in another)
> 
> I played a bit fast and loose with the themes I chose as the automasochism is not exactly literal and the zelophilia is not exactly straight forward and the self-taste… well, it's a bit messed up too. I'm so happy to be back as a regular posting member. Thanks for reading! ♥
> 
> Originally posted on Daily Deviant [here](https://daily-deviant.dreamwidth.org/17979.html).

You're curious. That's the sick thing about it. You try to shove the feeling away, relegating it to the shadowed corner of your brain where you keep knowledge from old Divination lessons and the memory of Cruciatus roiling through your body. Things for which there is no use. But it keeps popping up, sometimes in the clench of your chest, the forced smiles over dinner, or when Pansy tells you she's working late, don't wait up -- impossible to read her expression in the swirling green flames of the Floo -- and the tight little knot in your stomach pulses, refusing to be ignored. 

You're not quite sure when the plan formed. A seed planted by the first letter you found in the drawer of Pansy's vanity. You're not normally a snoop. It never occurred to you that there might be a reason. At least not after the three years you've shared your heart, your home. You only meant to tidy up when you saw the corner of the parchment sticking out like an untucked bed sheet. Open the drawer, ease the parchment inside, everything in its right place. 

_Cunt._ _Fuck me._ _Wet._ _Want you._ Crude words Pansy taught you to enjoy. Taught you to whimper when she teased you, moan when she thrust inside you with her fingers, shiver in delight when she whispered them in your ear. They were printed in an elegant script, full effusive sentences that you couldn't seem to process, not all at once. You can't even remember most of it now, only the freeze of your muscles, the ice down your spine, the creeping numbness that took hold as your eyes jumped to the end to take in the carefully signed name: _Astoria._

You started the brewing process before the plan coalesced. It's been years, and yet you gathered ingredients by route, set up the cauldron in your basement lab inside which Pansy never ventures, cut and stirred by muscle memory, the timing in your bones. You wait for her to catch you. The night you're both invited to dinner at Draco and Astoria's (Does he know? Suspect? Care in the slightest?), you make an excuse and sneak off to the master bedroom to swipe a a single hair from Astoria's brush. Heart hammering hard, a rush to your blood. Your cheeks heat, and when you return to the table, you're quite sure it's written all over your face, what you've done. You wait for her to notice, to narrow her eyes at you, to question you the moment you Apparate home and land in your foyer. But all she does is kiss your cheek, sigh her exhaustion, and ask you if you're coming to bed? A strange disappointment settles in your stomach. You head for your lab instead.

A mimicking quill for the invitation. Borrowing a post owl and hoping Pansy doesn't notice when it's not Astoria's regal Virginia that drops the missive in her lap. You can't fathom Astoria any place Muggle, so you settle on The Hog's Head with its dingy rented rooms and hope your excuse of "something different" is sufficient enough. 

You arrive early in your hooded cloak, take possession of your key, and hurry up the stairs, one hand on the stoppered phial in your pocket. Safely behind the door, you strip off your robes and attempt to transfigure them into something more suitable, something more like Astoria would wear, but your magic is shaky, your spell work imperfect. And so you're standing there nude when you hear the creak of the stairs and the thumping of Pansy's heeled boots striding down the hallway. You gather the ragged remains of your clothes and that all important phial, and rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind you. 

Red-faced. Panting. You glance at the mirror. Duck your head away.

But you unstopper the phial. Add the delicate brown hair to the spelled-simmering potion. It bubbles and pops and turns a pale violet. The door to the rented room opens. Pansy steps inside. There's no time left for quibbling hesitation. You tip the phial into your mouth. It tastes like the figs Pansy used to snack on. Lazy Sunday afternoons. Naked, entwined, sweaty from sex. Pansy's stomach would growl and she'd summon her bowl of figs from the kitchen. 

It tastes like her lips. 

Fire burns through you, blood rushing in your ears. You stifle the pain of transformation with a fist to your mouth as your hips narrow, muscles quiver and tighten, body reforming anew. You tug on your now smooth, straightened hair to stop the tears welling in your eyes. The pain leaves faint pulsing echos. You breathe through them until they fade. 

You don't dare look in the mirror. On shaky legs, you leave the safety of the bathroom and step out into the room.

Pansy starts. Whatever plan you've pieced together falls away with the look in her eyes. _She knows. She knows._ How you ever thought you'd manage this is a delusion to which you so easily fell prey. 

But in the space of a breath, Pansy smiles. Her lips slant, a sparkle in the deep brown of her eyes. 

"Hey, beautiful."

_Beautiful._ It cuts quick and deep, not just the word, but the warmth that spreads through your chest upon hearing it. She looks you over and your body ( _her_ body) betrays you, tingling with the sweep of her gaze. Nipples tightening in the cool air, a kick in your cunt with the slide of Pansy's tongue over her lower lip. 

"Getting started without me?" she asks when she finishes assessing you. Appreciating you. Your lips part, mouth opens. No reply follows. Your voice stuck in your throat isn't an issue when she closes the distance and takes you into her arms for a kiss. 

You melt in her embrace. It's almost embarrassing. The scent of your arousal so strong it fills the room. Jealousy flares, hotter than the pain of transformation, but you fall into her hungry kisses. You remember them from the early days, how she stole your breath away, her appetite never sated. Oh, how she wanted you. How she wants you. _How she wants her._

Pansy's clothes come off. Mostly from her own hands as you can't seem to fall into your usual rhythms, your limbs feeling slightly too long, your hands too big. You know from experience that she likes it when you undo her trousers, slide your palm over her knickers and feel the heat of her, the throb of her, through damp cotton. But she's shoved both her trousers and knickers to the floor before you can even try. 

She pushes you onto the bed. Crawls on top of you and settles into the spread of your thighs. Her kisses turn sharp, biting. She squeezes your breast hard, twists it a little in her hand. You gasp at her roughness, the scrape of her nails, the harsh tug of your nipple when she slides down and takes it between her teeth. She's never been so wild with you. So careless. You open your mouth to tell her, no, stop, please. 

"Harder," comes out instead. You grab a fistful of her hair and yank. A violent thrill shudders through you when she looks into your eyes. Her lips are wet with saliva. Your cunt pulses when she smiles. 

She sinks between your legs, spreading your thighs wider with insistent hands. Your stomach jumps, nerves zipping up and down and through your body. You've never liked this. You always discourage her. But you don't resist now. It's easier when you're wearing someone else's skin. Lie back. Focus on the play of her teeth along your tender inner thigh, the lick of her tongue against your cunt. She works you open, dives inside. She fucks you with it, licking up to swirl around your clit before she thrusts inside again, and again. Her nails dig into your thighs. You spread yourself wider, rocking your hips against her mouth. Your orgasm builds, fast and quick, a pleasure you'd be disgusted by if you only had the space for it, the space for anything but what Pansy is working out of your body. 

But at the edge, you grab her. Pull her to you. Kiss her glistening lips. She slides two fingers inside you and you come, shaking all over. You come tasting yourself. 

You come tasting _her_. 

"Don't stop now," she rasps into your mouth. She massages your cunt, squeezes it tight, before slipping inside you, finding your throbbing clit again. "Come again," she coaxes. "Come for me."

The keen sting of bliss pings through you. She kisses you, swallows your second orgasm whole.

You sink into the bed. You feel everything at once and nothing at all. She flops on her back beside you, her panting echoing your own. You should say something. You don't know what to say. Your mind isn't working too well anyhow, and "thank you" seems at best, inappropriate. You thanked her after your first time together, riding high on the lingering tremors of pleasure. She laughed at you, affectionately, and it warmed your insides to hear it. 

"Thank you implies it was a gift. I'm far too selfish for that," she'd said. 

Your heart clenches. You smile bitterly as you remember.

She's halfway dressed before you realise she's left the bed, a cold empty space on the cheap mattress now beside you. 

"You're leaving?" you ask before you can stop yourself. She doesn't answer until her blouse is buttoned, trousers zipped up, everything in its right place. But then she looks at you. Your skin prickles uncomfortably. You grab the strewn sheet and pull it awkwardly across your body. The room's gone cold. You shiver. 

You can't read her expression. Even with the tug of her lips. Her slanted smile. 

"You got what you came for, didn't you?" 

She leaves, the door snicking shut behind her.


End file.
